Broke Fan Blues
My children have been born and have grown with their mother oscillating off-kilter in the depths of depression and sometimes psychosis.
Only some shimmers of reflections of lost light can be seen for a second, maybe less.
I crush my face bones underneath of my fists.
I pinch my skin until the blood comes.
I hold the flame a little too close for a little too long.
I don’t even know why I hate this person.
I used to be so beautiful.
I am now just this thorny shell.
Which version of my face will they remember; and will they even want to?
After I’m gone.